Graveside
by Lolsome-o-sis girl
Summary: [Tom/Lexi] "It's too cold here. That's the first thing she notices, as she slips through the iron gate and lets it swing shut behind her. It's far too dismal for August. August is a time for warmth, not for brittle cold that shocks you to the bone. Or maybe it's just her."


**Grave****side**

_Fandom: Wizards Vs Aliens_

_Rating: K+_

_Genre: Romance, Angst_

_Pairing: Tom/Lexi_

_Word count: 641_

***Spoiler warning for 02x14***

_Summary: "It's too cold here.__That's the first thing she notices, as she slips through the iron gate and lets it swing shut behind her. It's far too dismal for August. August is a time for warmth, not for brittle cold that shocks you to the bone. Or maybe __i__t's just her." Tom/Lexi ONESHOT._

_A.N: So, yeah...hi? I'm so sorry I haven't been updating for MONTHS, but I've been working on some of my own stuff over the summer. It's no Pride and Prejudice, but it's going pretty well! Anyway, here's some depressing Tom and Lexi (well, Lexi) for everyone, because summer is over, and I'm all about the angst. DISCLAIMER, as usual, I own nothing._

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It's too cold here.

That's the first thing she notices, as she slips through the iron gate and lets it swing shut behind her. It's far too dismal for August. August is a time for warmth, not for brittle cold that shocks you to the bone. Or maybe it's just her.

Her feet plod through the wavy grass, passing the other stones like a ghost, silent and unnoticed. There is every type of person here today, from every walk of life. Why should she stand out, be any different to them? She blends into the background, unseen. Once, she thought that was a good thing. Now, she's not so sure.

She isn't sure whether she's going the right way, until she stumbles upon a collection of newer, fresher plots at the end of the row. The one at the end is the newest, overflowing with flowers and soggy cards and a shiny new headstone, barely a month old. Seeing it puts an ugly, metallic taste in her mouth, but she summons up her reserve and carries on walking. She's been putting this off for at least two weeks, unable to bare even the thought of seeing it. But, she's walked all this way, and there's really no point turning round and going straight back home (if that bedsit hovel she's renting can really be called a "home"), not when she's come so far. It wouldn't be fair. She's already lost any self dignity, any self pride for herself; the least she can do is pay her respects now. Even though it's far too late.

She falters a little as she gets closer, but, before she knows it, she's standing in front of the grave, hands in her pockets to try and warm them, eyes following the golden lettering on the granite stone.

_In loving memory of Thomas Clarke._

_1996 - 2015_

She crouches down, getting a better look at the mountain of flowers heaped up on the plot. She hasn't brought any flowers, a letter, or anything to leave behind. Now she's starting to wish that she had. This is her fault, after all.

It had been great, at first. Being all human-y. Not having to deal with the choking ties from her other life. She wouldn't have to deal with her brother and his betrayal, or her father and his inability to treat her like an individual, and not just the back-up child. She didn't even consider the possibility that they would come back. Or the fact that Tom would try and put himself in their way. Or the fact that if she hadn't chosen to stay away from him, he would still be here now. She wouldn't be stood over his graveside like some vulture.

If she had chosen to find him, she could have helped him. But, he died, saving her, probably while she was sitting in her hovel, eating cold tinned soup, her arm around her son (she'd managed to heat his tin of soup up; she always had), wishing for a better life.

And, the worst part was, she had seen him. She'd seen him lots of times before he died - playing football, on dates with a array of ever-changing girls, sitting quietly in a tree and just thinking. And she could have gone over and helped him.

But, she never did. And now there was no one left to help.

She rises suddenly, realising that a small crowd of high school students are now coming up the path. School friends, she thinks, wincing. Even now, she's running away. When there's really nothing left to run from.

She takes one look back at the headstone, before turning on her heel and vanishing as fast as she can, ducking down a shortcut, trying to rid herself of the lump in her throat full of unspoken apologises.


End file.
